


The Spice of Life

by presidentwarden



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Conversations, Flirting, M/M, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:52:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4561794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/presidentwarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short ficlet, written for a cooking/food headcanons prompt. Headcanon: Zev insists on packing spices when they travel.</p><p>- - -</p><p>“There’s nothing wrong with Fereldan cooking.” Loghain grumbles, but grudgingly accepts this rationale, shutting the saddlebag and buckling it tight to prevent any of the precious spice vials from falling out along the way, Maker forbid. Where did Zevran even find some of these? “You just haven’t experienced the best of it.”</p><p>“Right now, I don’t think there is a ‘best’ of it.” Zev strides over to the remaining stack of supplies, shoving clothes and other necessities into his backpack until it’s full to bursting. “My sources inform me the chicken soup at the Gnawed Noble no longer contains chicken. Instead it features… well, the sort of creature rather more likely to gnaw.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spice of Life

The warhorse, a sturdy black Fereldan crossbreed with a braided mane, paws the earth impatiently, its saddlebags stuffed with supplies that strain against the pouch’s worn leather. One bag is full of herbs, sheaves of dried pressed elfroot and a small sack of deep mushrooms and a vial of potent deathroot, enough to mix a batch of health poultices for emergencies or to brew some bitter bracing tonics for stamina.

The other is full of Antivan spices, arranged no less neatly and with deep care, by none other than Zevran himself. Never mind, of course, that this is not his horse. No, his horse is a sturdy mustang type, smaller and nimble-footed, far more suited to an elf’s dutiful guidance. But  _his_  steed’s saddlebags are already loaded up with preserved foods, suitable for a gourmet palate or even a simple one, since Antivan cuisine is suitable to all. Truly, it’s the finest in Thedas; no Orlesian concoction or hearty Fereldan dish can hold a candle to the flavors of Antiva. And this journey is straightforward enough that the pair should be able to enjoy life’s comforts along the way.

Loghain checks the bag’s contents in disbelief, peering within. “Zevran. Are you quite serious?”

“Oh, I am always serious, my dear Loghain.” Zev breezes past, tossing his hair over his shoulder with a precise smirk aimed at his traveling partner. His fine blond locks are woven into a loose braid that hangs between his narrow shoulderblades, the light strands noticeable against the dark green cloth of his tunic. Frosty Fereldan weather has necessitated a change to his wardrobe, especially in the cold climates of the Peak, so he’s taken to swapping his minimal leather outfit for something more substantial. The famous Warden blue, however, is strictly limited to Loghain, who looks quite fetching in it.

Loghain, however, seems to have no concerns about being fetching at the moment. Not with that scowl, dark brows knitted together and his full mouth drawn into a pout, marring his face ever so slightly with consternation. He glances back at the stack of supplies, then at the spices in the saddlebag. Enough to stock a kitchen!  _Was_ this taken from the Peak’s kitchen? Probably. He fixes Zev in a stern look, catching his attention quite readily. “I just have one question. What do you intend to do with all this? Do you think Redcliffe has some… some lack of spice vendors, and you plan to fill a niche in the market?”

“That was two questions.” Zev can’t resist, and receives a light cuff to his shoulder for that, just laughing at the relative gentleness of Loghain’s reprimand. “And no, it’s not for Redcliffe. Just for us. I’ve eaten Fereldan cooking, and I suspect it will not be improved by adding wildlife to the diet. I would like our meals along the way to be at least palatable.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Fereldan cooking.” Loghain grumbles, but grudgingly accepts this rationale, shutting the saddlebag and buckling it tight to prevent any of the precious spice vials from falling out along the way, Maker forbid. Where did Zevran even  _find_ some of these? “You just haven’t experienced the best of it.”

“Right now, I don’t think there  _is_  a ‘best’ of it.” Zev strides over to the remaining stack of supplies, shoving clothes and other necessities into his backpack until it’s full to bursting. “My sources inform me the chicken soup at the Gnawed Noble no longer contains chicken. Instead it features… well, the sort of creature rather more likely to gnaw.”

Loghain glances up at the sky with utter pity for himself and the pub’s regular customers. “I didn’t need to know that.” A sigh, and he starts filling his own backpack with care, a stash of sovereigns tucked into one of his socks for emergencies. “Besides, I thought Lady Tabris sent you to Denerim to investigate the Warden supply cache, not the status of local cuisine.”

“She did both. And that’s  _Teyrna_  Tabris, is it not?” Zev can’t quite resist, sporting a broad grin, and the look Loghain gives him is just pitiful enough that he offers an apology. “No, no, do not take it all so seriously. You are a Warden now, yes? So the estate is still in good hands. Today, Redcliffe; tomorrow, Gwaren. It will only be a matter of time until you can visit.”

“We’re only going to Redcliffe to deliver a message, not rehabilitate the place from darkspawn hordes. They’re not the same.” Loghain is as practical as ever, and pulls the letter from within his jacket to brandish at Zevran as some sort of proof. The jacket is a quilted affair, in blue cloth and brown leather, tremendously comfortable and warm with a number of hidden pockets. The Warden commissioned the outfits upon the defeat of the Blight, for herself, several other recruits, and Loghain, who is now apparently acting Warden-Constable. He was informed of this in casual conversation earlier, and still hasn’t quite wrapped his mind around the notion. Fortunately, the insignia patch sewn onto the shoulder announces it, so he doesn’t have to. “Hopefully the meeting with Eamon will be bearable. I don’t imagine he’ll be glad to see me.” An understatement, if there ever was one.

“Oh, of course not, but he is not the sort of man to be glad for another’s triumph over the odds. Especially not yours.” Zevran gives him a meaningful glance, then slings the backpack over his shoulders, buckling its straps across his chest and waist to keep it in place throughout the journey. “Just keep it brief, Loghain. If you want to be polite, avoid mentioning wives, or sons, or anything to do with blood mages, or poison. That should still leave a great number of conversational topics on the table, don’t you think?”

“I don’t intend to say anything to him that isn’t ‘Hello Eamon, the Warden-Commander has a message for you, here it is, goodbye.’ Anything beyond that would be… unnecessary.” Loghain looks repulsed at the notion of casual conversation with the man. “And no, I don’t plan to call him old and fat again. Not that he wouldn’t deserve it.”

Zev just laughs, and cheerfully asks for a leg up onto his horse, so Loghain offers it, hoisting him up with ease and helping his companion settle into the saddle. He’s large for an elf, but still small in comparison to the former teyrn, who’s broad-shouldered and tall even when not in his oversized Orlesian armor. “I could do it for you, if you’d like. As an Antivan, and an affiliate of the Wardens, I  _must_  surely have some sort of diplomatic immunity.”

“Not in Redcliffe, you don’t.” Loghain puts on his own backpack, drawing the straps tight and letting the weight settle onto his shoulders. It’s no worse than the shield he usually carries, though the burden disperses a little differently across his back, prodding him uncomfortably in a few places. He rolls his shoulders to fix it, then climbs into the saddle, hoisting himself up a bit stiffly. It’s been too long since he took an extended journey on horseback. This time, he’s carrying a shortbow and quiver rather than his usual weapons, to accompany Zevran’s daggers. Right now, they’re making diplomacy, not war. “Fortunately, you won’t need it. We’re planning to come and go within a day. Keep that in mind.”

“Oh, good.” Zevran is inclined to interpret everything as good news, provided that it means he and Loghain get more time together as traveling partners. “Hmm.” And his eyes get that familiar glint, mouth curving in a wicked smirk. “If we can find somewhere comfortable to stay that evening, I could have you com--”

 _“Don’t_  you make a pun out of that.” Loghain tosses a glare over his shoulder, glossy braids swishing and framing his face. He’s secretly amused, of course. “I expressly forbid it.”

"You should have forbidden it when you first said it. You know everything is fair game.” Zevran nudges his horse, and it bounds ahead, passing Loghain’s horse for a few strides. When he turns back, his bright grin is visible in profile. “No matter. There are many ways to a man’s heart, so it’s all the same to me what we do that night.”

Loghain grumbles to himself, hiding a smile. “And, all else failing, I suppose you plan to seduce me with  _spices.”_

Zev chuckles, leaning across the gap between them to pat the spice-filled saddlebag, then trail his fingers over Loghain’s thigh, just a second of touch before his fingers return to the reins. “Maybe. Perhaps I won’t even need them.”


End file.
